


Two of a kind

by darkviverna



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: AU - Jeremiah never left the circus, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Codependency, Dark, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkviverna/pseuds/darkviverna
Summary: He wants to say that he hates Jerome, and in some ways he certainly does. Jeremiah hates how afraid his brother makes him feel. He hates the way Jerome smiles, all teeth and malice, as he stalks down a stray cat. He hates that he has to wear glasses, yet Jerome, his twin, his mirror image, has perfect eyesight. Jeremiah hates Jerome.Except, he doesn’t really._____Jeremiah doesn't leave the Circus, but it doesn't mean things turn out for the better.





	Two of a kind

The day comes to an end, but the night is young - crisp with the cold, distant glow of the stars and the moon. The sky is clear, no clouds in sight. It should be a pleasant summer night. It almost was. But, despite the warm August breeze, Jeremiah feels a chill claw its way down his back, around his thin arms, crawling into his stuttering breath.

Its late, late enough for it to be very, very early, and Jeremiah is sitting all alone on the steps of the trailer he and his small, dysfunctional family considers something akin to home. The boy doesn’t think they ever had a home. The circus itself, perhaps, could be their heart, their livelihood, and their run-down residence did house them and gave them a place to sleep. 

Jeremiah is unsure if that counts as a home.

He is sitting, alone, knees drawn close and chin resting against his legs, the bone digging in almost painfully into the muscle. Jeremiah’s hands are gripping the cheap fabric of his sleep pants, blunt nails digging into his palms as the boy tries his best to hold himself together. It hasn’t been working out great so far.

Jeremiah is alone, and it’s quiet outside. The circus is rarely ever quiet. It unnerves the boy, whose brilliant green eyes dart around, following the shifting shadows that form, dance and disappear before him. Despite the moonlight and clear skies, it so very, very dark outside. He should really head inside. Go to sleep, or turn on the light and read a book. Jeremiah should do that.

He doesn’t.

Maybe because the boy cannot go to sleep with the shadows dancing across the windows, the trailer silent except his rushed, hiccuping breaths. Or perhaps he just needs some company, no matter how poor it will be. Maybe he just can’t sleep.

Jeremiah knows that none of those are right. He has slept through the night alone before, and despite being a ten year old kid, shadows don’t really scare him anymore. Mostly he is sitting outside, tense and curled up, because he feels guilty. Feels responsible.

Jeremiah knows he is guilty, and he is responsible. He is usually better at not letting it affect him, though.

He wants to say that he hates Jerome, and in some ways he certainly does. Jeremiah hates how afraid his brother makes him feel. He hates the way Jerome smiles, all teeth and malice, as he stalks down a stray cat. He hates that he has to wear glasses, yet Jerome, his twin, his mirror image, has perfect eyesight. Jeremiah hates Jerome.

Except, he doesn’t really. He wouldn’t be sitting here, in the middle of the night, feeling guilty for getting Jerome into trouble if he really hated him. Jeremiah wouldn’t wince in sympathy at the bruises Jerome gets. He wouldn’t stick close to him when they are alone in the trailer, not paying attention to each other yet enjoying the company anyway. 

Jeremiah hates that he doesn’t really hate Jerome.

And yet, he uses him as a shield, as a distraction, as a punching bag, even if Jeremiah himself never lands a hit. He lets Lila smack his twin around, lets Uncle Zach to be distracted by shouting at Jerome, he lets Jerome take all their anger and only takes their adoration. He is the better half. The good son.

Jeremiah thinks he is a worse person than Jerome. Because at least Jerome is honest. And no matter how many times Jeremiah tells it to himself, Jerome doesn’t really deserve what he gets.

Earlier in the night, he let Mother drag Jerome outside, angry and drunk, her hand fisted into the ginger hair of her son as she leads him away, promises of a lesson flying fast and slurred of her lipstick smeared lips. Jeremiah didn’t want to deal with a drunk Mom. He didn’t want to hear her scream down Jerome all night. So he told her that Jeremiah was being mean, and it was all it took.

That was hours ago. 

It’s hard to really feel the time passing in the night - it is as dark right now as it was when Jeremiah first stood in the entrance of their residence, watching with horror and guilt as Mother and Jerome disappear from his sight into the shadows.

Jeremiah shifts, uncomfortable. He frees one of his hands from a white-knuckled grip, raising it to his face to fix his glasses. He sweeps his eyes around again. Nothing has changed. The boy sighs, thinking about abandoning this affair and going to sleep. He almost does.

But the shadows are long, and the stars are cold and uncaring, and an image of Jerome, bleeding down on the grass, blood almost black in the moonlight, stops him. He doesn’t move.

His shoulders and knees start to hurt. He doesn’t move.

His eyes grew heavy, like lead, but he keeps them open. He doesn’t move.

After what feels like a small eternity, Jeremiah hears soft thuds of tiny, stumbling footsteps. He lifts his head.

Jerome looks wrecked. His hair is wild, and has an unnatural sheen to it, as if he had just stepped out of the shower. His left arm is wound tight to his chest, fingers limp, and his right arm swing off-rhythm to the steps he takes. Jerome’s legs seem to be moving purely out of force for will. 

There is a think line of blood running down the corner of his mouth, and he is smiling. His teeth are stained pink.

Jeremiah stands up and almost falls, blood rushing to his head belatedly as his vision swims in dark blotches for a second or two. He crosses his arms around his chest, swallowing down the ghost of bile threatening to come up his throat.

Jerome eyes his twin down. His eyes are wild and sharp. He looks angry. He looks out of his goddamn mind. He looks hurt.

Jerome doesn’t stop walking, most likely intending to push his brother out of his way and climb into his bed. Pass out. Rinse, wake up, repeat. Somehow, the thought of that leaves a pit growing in Jeremiah’s stomach.

So he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Jerome stops. He is but a breath away from Jeremiah, his left shoulder almost touching his twin’s right. He stops, and Jeremiah waits, fear slowly creeping over his guilt, crushing it in a steady pace. Maybe he should have kept quiet. 

Jerome’s eyes are as green as his, yet they always seem to be burning hot and bright, so unlike the meek, shy Jeremiah. His pupils are pinpricks despite the darkness outside, and his gaze stabs sharply into jeremiah as he holds eye contact. 

“You’re sorry?” Jerome asks, and his voice is wrong - too hushed and too scratched, as if his throat is sore. Jeremiah feels his breath quicken, rib cage constraining against his crossed arms, air leaving his nose as if he was punched. He should have kept quiet.

Jeremiah expects a shove. Maybe even a punch. At least a string of words as venomous as the vipers that can be found during the summer on the fields near some cities they visit. Jeremiah expects pain.

It doesn’t come. Jerome doesn’t move. So Jeremiah repeats.

“Yes,” he starts, voice now close to being choked up as he gets closer to the edge of crying. “I’m sorry,” the boy says again, and now he just feels stupid, repeating himself like a broken record. 

“Of course you are,” comes the reply, but it is nowhere near as biting as Jeremiah expected it to be. It feels… resigned. He wants to catch the look on his twin’s face, to understand what is going on, but before he can make anything out, Jerome brushes past him, much gentler than he usually does, and disappears behind the trailer door.

Jeremiah doesn’t move. He closes his eyes, exhaling loudly. His head hurts, his eyes sting, he feels tremors slowly working their way through his small frame. It’s warm outside. He feels so, so cold.

His eyes fly open, his breath stutters and his legs move, posture rigid and lungs burning, as Jeremiah follows his twin inside, quietly closing the door behind him. He wonders idly if Mother will come back tonight. Most likely answer is ‘no’. 

Jeremiah doesn’t see Jerome when he first looks around. He must already be in their ‘room’ - a small nook of the trailer with two mattresses, hidden behind a tattered screen. Thought of Jerome bleeding on the (almost) white sheets leaves a sour taste in Jeremiah’s mouth.

He moves on autopilot.

Grabs a towel, dips it in water, grabs a separate bowl that he fills with water and moves to their ‘room’ on quiet feet. He sees Jerome sitting down at the edge of his mattress, his eyes hidden behind his hair that has fallen over the twin’s face. In the light of the trailer, Jeremiah sees that the sheen he noticed earlier was blood. It coated ginger strands, cracked at the edges, rusty color blending messily with bright orange. 

Jeremiah doesn’t say a word. Neither does Jerome.

He fixes his glasses again with the hand that holds the towel and sits down next to his twin, setting the bowl of water down on the ground. Jerome doesn’t acknowledge him. Slowly, Jeremiah reaches to his face with a wet towel, rubbing off dried blood from the side of his face, the corner of his mouth, revealing patches of skin turning blue. Jerome says nothing, but his eyes are burning holes in Jeremiah’s skull.

Jeremiah doesn’t stop. Jerome doesn’t try to stop him. So he continues on, silent, cleaning blood off especially gentle around wounds, dipping the towel into the bowl. Water comes off red-tinted. The room smells of iron. Jeremiah has to swallow down bile again. 

Silence is broken only by the dripping of water off the towel, by occasional hiss that leaves Jerome’s split lip when Jeremiah has to clean a cut, and by the sharp exhales that force themselves out of Jeremiah’s lungs when he finds a new cut, a new bruise, another evidence of pain he caused. He is guilty. He is responsible. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again once Jerome is mostly clean and the water in the bowl is deep red. The towel is ruined. Jeremiah feels like he ruined Jerome.

“I know you are,” comes the reply. It holds no malice. Jeremiah looks up to his twin’s face and only sees shadows of tiredness. He doubts that Jerome will forgive him. He thinks he doesn’t want his brother to. But he is happy at the absence of anger nonetheless. 

Jeremiah is so, so selfish.

Jerome closes his eyes and tips sideways, lying down on his mattress. His clothes are still dirty, darkened with dirt and blood, but Jeremiah sees how tired his twin is. He doesn’t have a heart to tell him to change. He averts his eyes, tearing his gaze away from the bruise on the side of Jerome’s jaw. He blinks away the tears threatening to spill on his cheeks. Mother doesn’t like it when he cries.

He moves to his own mattress, ready to pass out face first into a pillow, but a hand grips him around the forearm, strong enough to hurt. Jeremiah’s head swerves around, eyes landing into Jerome’s. He feels fear picking up again.

“Stay,” Jerome chokes out, a desperate edge to his voice, and now Jeremiah is afraid for all the different reasons. He should say no. He should say sorry and move away. He should stay away from Jerome. 

But Jeremiah is selfish. So he nods, slowly leaning down and laying next to his twin on the thin bed. He reaches up and turns the lights off. It's dark again. The shadows dance across Jerome’s face, blending with his bruises.

Jeremiah feels guilty. Jeremiah feels like a monster. But despite it all, he feels a nauseating, sick twist of happiness crawling into his heart. Because Jerome is next to him. Because Jerome hasn’t yet killed him for what he has done.

And he feels something way worse snare his stuttering heart, stealing his breath away.

Hope.

Jeremiah hopes they will be brothers again. He hopes he will be strong enough to not let Mother hurt Jerome again. He hopes Jerome will not deny him his company. He hopes, selfishly, and has to stop his lips from forming a smile.

Jeremiah closes his eyes and falls asleep next to his twin, content.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can tell where the chapter title comes from - kudos to you.  
This is planned to be a quite long one, and I will try to not burn out and update frequently (within reason).  
What can I say... I love sibling angst.


End file.
